


What Was Said To The Rose

by The_Cimmerians



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cimmerians/pseuds/The_Cimmerians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Thanksgiving pornlet</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Was Said To The Rose

The pies were out of the oven, the turkey was in, the extra stuffing (cornbread, green apple, sausage and pecans with onions and chopped herbs this year—a new recipe, despite his dad’s stalwart defense of traditions) tucked into a baking dish and covered, ready to go in during the last hour with the twice-baked potatoes and the yams, already prepped and covered and waiting next to the ticking, booming oven. The Hummel-Hudson family kitchen looked like a food-laden tornado had touched down in it, but oh, it smelled so good.

As if the thought had summoned him, Burt drifted into the kitchen. “Kurt, this all smells incredible,” he said, turning in a slow circle. “Especially the pie,” he added, his orbit halted abruptly by the three pies cooling on the counter on wire racks, and his hands actually twitched a little as if he were restraining himself from reaching out and grabbing a hellish double-handful of liquid pie lava. “What kind are they?”

Kurt armed flour off of his forehead, nodding at each. “Deep-dish salted caramel apple, sweet potato, and chocolate bourbon pecan.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it; Steel Magnolias was on in the background when I planned the menu, and this whole Southern theme just happened—”

He refrained from further enumeration of the thematic influences on his menu selection, because Burt actually clutched the counter and moaned a little. Carole came into the kitchen with a freshly polished hors d’oeuvre tray, and Kurt turned to her as he took it. “Look—I need you to get him out of here before he tries to eat boiling pie. Can’t you take him for a walk or something? It’s still going to be hours before we eat.”

Burt objected, but Carole hustled him off with her lips sternly set and his arm in a vice grip, and Kurt took a deep breath and plunged into the clean-up portion of the proceedings, setting the stage for phase three of cooking. He was picking over the Brussels sprouts when two hands circled his waist and Blaine’s smooth cheek rubbed his shoulder.

“How is it that you manage to make that look indecently sexy?”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you have a thing for Brussels sprouts.”

Warm amber eyes under neat, heavy brows flashed up to him, an unfairly pretty distraction. “I really don’t.”

Kurt tsk’ed. “If you stay here, I’m going to put you to work, Blaine—”

Strong hands on his waist, Blaine’s warmth and closeness. “’m not staying.”

“No?”

“No. Actually, I’m trying to get you to leave.” A brief pause, then the hands on his waist squeezed a little, and Blaine’s voice dropped. “Come upstairs with me.”

“What? Blaine, I’m kind of in the middle of about a billion things here, in case you hadn’t noticed—”

“I noticed. But Carole took your dad to the movies, and you’ve been cooking for hours and you’re all messy and rumpled and you smell like Marc Jacobs and warm pie and it’s making me crazy.”

Kurt dropped the sprout he was holding and turned around, letting Blaine’s weight press him gently back against the counter. “Hm. The movies, huh?”

“The movies,” Blaine nodded solemnly. “Gone for hours. They asked me if I wanted to go, but I said I’d stay and help.” Blaine leaned closer, his eyes wide and his mouth softly open. “I want to help, Kurt.”

Kurt had to purse his lips against a grin. “Great—chop mirepoix for me.”

“After,” Blaine pledged, taking his hand, at once angelic and sweetly lecherous in that way that Kurt found almost impossible to resist. “After, after, after—I promise. I’ll chop mirepoix and scrub pots and shell peas and polish the silver and baste anything you tell me to—”

He had to kiss Blaine then, hoping that the fact he was giggling didn’t spoil the effect. They were both snickering and still kissing as he dragged Blaine upstairs into his old room. He stayed here on visits but it didn’t really feel like his any more—he was only a guest, just a visitor—but with Blaine there the room was his again in a new way: all the hours they’d spent together between these four walls, months of silent longing followed by months of desperate stolen moments and the dizzy, sparking slide of falling farther and faster than anyone had been prepared for. It had been Blaine then, and it was Blaine now, pushed down on the bed into a golden shaft of sunshine and kissed until he was breathless.

“Look at you.” He couldn’t-not say it: Blaine in the early winter sunshine with his cheeks flushed with arousal, reddening further now, his lips wet and his throat working and his hair starting to rebel, coming undone bit by bit from his buttoned-down boyish tidiness, irresistible. Kurt kissed him hard and felt Blaine’s body curve to him, settle under him, opening.

In the bed it was too sweet, too redolent of those illicit stolen teenage moments, the agony and terror and ecstatic pleasure that learning each other had been—he and his high-school sweetheart, and Blaine was still his sweetheart (and still in high school, for that matter), and it was so good to strip them both slowly out of their clothes, so good to be naked and warm with him while they melted together, so good to kiss Blaine until he gasped and shivered, pushing himself blindly into Kurt’s hands.

“What do you want?”

“To… uh. I’d—I want to feel you everywhere.” In Blaine’s low, shuddering voice it sounded like an admission, like it took an effort to say, the words trailing off to a half-glottal hum that then opened up into a soft-throated moan when Kurt rolled onto his back and pushed Blaine’s head downwards. He held Blaine behind the neck with one hand and his own aching erection with the other, feeding him slowly while Blaine breathed and hummed and writhed a little, his hips twisting into nothing. He kept going until there was no more, until his cock had disappeared completely into Blaine’s stretched-slick, vulnerable mouth and Blaine’s lashes had gone wet and matted.

“Jesus, Blaine,” and Blaine made a soft, needy sound and clutched Kurt’s hips, as if he were afraid that Kurt would pull back. Kurt stayed where he was, rocking a little, still cupping the back of Blaine’s neck while his other hand stroked his taut cheek, pushing in with tiny, slow circles until his own eyes fluttered and his skin glowed hot with sudden sweat and he had to press his head back hard into the pillows. “God—stop swallowing, Blaine—we just got started.”

Waves of heat, waves of need coming off Blaine as Kurt fucked his mouth as slowly and gently as he could stand, holding off the need to come until his slow-measured breathing became gasping and then panting and he was suddenly near-desperate, shuddering with every liquid-sweet slide into Blaine’s wicked seduction of a mouth. He came loose when he rolled them over again, pressing Blaine into the bed and quickly kissing his hot, moaning mouth before tucking a pillow under his head and straddling his shoulders. “This okay?”

Blaine nodded, gasping, wrecked and so lovely, sheened with sweat and squeezing Kurt’s thighs with shaking hands. “Yeh… I… yes. Yes. But I… if you… I’m sorry, I’m probably going to come. I don’t think I can help it.”

“Okay,” Kurt said, and traced Blaine’s cheekbone with his thumb while he sank in again, all the way in in three ragged thrusts, and he could feel Blaine surging under him, and when Blaine went back to moaning and swallowing Kurt didn’t stop him. He held Blaine by the hair and used his mouth as long as he could, longer than he’d thought he would manage but then the thing that did it in the end was feeling Blaine’s muscles lock up when he came—without a hand on his cock or even a leg or a sheet to rub against, just locked muscles and one deep groan and then hitched breath and rhythmic, desperate swallowing and Kurt let go, coming in Blaine’s throat with a rough cry he couldn’t help, his head flung back and Blaine’s damp face cradled in his hands.

The aftermath was sticky-sweet, messy, bitter-salt kisses and a sparkling glow to the air since they’d somehow managed to steam up the window and the sun came in through a haze of rainbow droplets. Blaine was beautiful, rosy and drenched with sweat and come, utterly debauched-looking. They were stuck together as firmly as if they’d been glued.

“Oh my God, we’re disgusting.” He’d meant it to come out strident and disapproving, but he really hadn’t recovered yet from coming so hard it seemed to vibrate his brain and so he just sounded sad and mildly puzzled, and the next thing he knew the two of them were laughing again, snickering and snorting a little and trying to kiss through it.

Blaine fit so perfectly in his arms, shared-pillow, post-coital kisses the best kisses of all, Blaine’s beautiful skin winter-pale and fine-grained and smooth, the small of his back so delectable under the palm of Kurt’s hand. Kurt was suddenly keenly aware that he’d been up since four o’clock in the morning, and the light in the room shaded to a grainier gold as his eyes grew heavy. “Don’t let me…” he broke off to allow for a jaw-cracking yawn. “I can’t fall asleep. The turkey. Vegetables. Gravy. Bread. God—don’t let me—”

“You could take a nap,” Blaine said, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “Just twenty minutes—no more, I promise. Really, Kurt, you look exhausted.”

“’s because I cooked for an army and then my boyfriend made me come my brains out,” he replied with sleepy mock-petulance, blinking. “No more than twenty minutes. You swear?”

“Swear,” Blaine whispered, snuggling close, and Kurt barely heard the word before he drifted away.

***

Heat. Pressure. Pleasure. Blaine—so close, touching his face so softly, whispering in his ear. “Time to wake up, Kurt.”

He’d rolled onto his back while he’d been asleep—and whoa, he must have been pretty far under because he was hard again, condom-covered and lubed, all his nerves tingling deliciously while Blaine straddled him, pupils wide and his own cock hard and red with a flush that rose to his mid-chest. “Is this okay? I didn’t… I wasn’t sure—”

“God,” Kurt managed, stretching and letting want curl through him, driving sleepiness out of his limbs until he nearly vibrated with desire. “Blaine—yes—you… um. Lube?”

“Taken care of,” Blaine murmured low and throaty, and then it was half Blaine and half him fitting themselves together, Blaine’s full ass in his hands so soft and lush it seemed nearly obscene, pushing into the silky-tight, beating heart of him with one soft sigh and a deep groan.

Risky—always such risk with this, because honestly neither one of them was really that great at controlling themselves: it was too intense, too powerful, bringing something big and dangerous too close to the surface, and there was always this sense of riding a ragged line over an unimaginable abyss. But the things that were bad about it were also the things that were good about it: Kurt felt stripped raw, Blaine’s eyes on his like they were touching on some level deeper than the physical, connected to each other at some elemental core. Blaine rode him gently and sweetly, moaning while his nipples hardened and the flush took over the rest of his body, his soft-furred thighs glowing hot under Kurt’s shaking hands.

“What do you want?” Kurt asked Blaine again, his own voice husky and heavy, sliding one hand closer to Blaine’s flushed and straining cock. “Tell me.”

“I—yeah, you can, yes, please—” Kurt took Blaine in hand and stroked him, and Blaine shivered so hard that both of them cried out a little. “I want… oh. That. And… f-fuck me. Make me come. And then…” Blaine gasped and bit his lip, his eyebrows drawing down, and for one desperate second Kurt almost came then and there because Blaine was so beautiful, taking him and riding him so pretty. “Then, uh, lay me down and… um. Umm… Ah—”

“Lay you down and… and fuck you?”

“Hard. Fuck me hard—Kurt, God—”

He yanked Blaine down into a kiss, barely leaving room for his hand to stroke but he insisted, stripping Blaine’s cock and sucking his tongue and it was so hot, everything was so hot and wet and careening out of control, thundering heart and on the edge of things. Blaine was bucking, groaning into his mouth and shaking hard, moving on top of him like heavy molten muscular perfection. Kurt worked to make him come, lifting his hips and twisting, squeezing and stroking until his wrist ached and his breath caught in his throat on every stroke and he felt like his body was crying out on a cellular level wanting, needing Blaine to come.

When Blaine came hot on his chest Kurt almost sobbed with gratitude, squeezing his eyes tight shut against a sudden sweet-hot sting and kissing Blaine through it, feeling him shudder and shiver and come apart, come undone, his forehead finally thudding against Kurt’s shoulder like a heavy weight. Kurt didn’t wait for Blaine’s trembling to stop but rolled him in a tight arc, mindful not to send them grappling onto the floor, rolled him and pushed his thighs wide apart and fucked him so hard the headboard slammed into the wall with a sudden, savage rhythm.

Blaine cried out softly, a stream of sweetly filthy words breathed into Kurt’s ear, and Kurt only lasted a few blisteringly-hot seconds, only managed a few ruthless, desperate thrusts before he came himself, moaning raggedly, his face pressed tight to the wet curve of Blaine’s neck and Blaine’s warm hands pulling him closer and his heart glowing like it would melt right out of his chest.

***

They held each other up in the shower, and they had to be quick what with time running short, but neither one of them seemed to be able to resist lapsing into bouts of giggles, kisses, or both. Blaine was wet and loose-limbed and so very gorgeous, and Kurt had to actively restrain himself from starting round three (he could have done it, he thought—and even round four and onward: were it not for certain temporal and logistical obstacles, he could have easily and gladly devoted the entire day to seeing how many orgasms he could wring out of both of them).

They tumbled out of the shower together on a cloud of steam and happy-humming kisses and semi-hysterical snickering, with flesh rarified enough that Kurt wondered if he might float through the ceiling before he managed to dry himself off. His brain still felt like a tilt-a-whirl built inside a nitrous oxide factory by the time he got back down to the kitchen with Blaine in tow, where the turkey had started to put out savory hints of rosemary and sage and other seriously wonderful aromas.

“Okay,” Blaine sighed, pulling back from a kiss. “Head Chef Hummel—put me to work. Lowly scullery boy Blaine Anderson reporting for duty.”

Kurt didn’t bother trying not to grin. “You do realize that sounds like some sort of ridiculous porn premise, right?”

Blaine leaned in for one more kiss, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I was kind of hoping you’d pick up on that.”

Kurt kissed him back, and let his own eyes flutter closed. He breathed in the clean-scrubbed smell of Blaine, and the warm, savory-sweet smells of the kitchen—the smell of home with Blaine in his arms—and took this one quiet moment before the tumult began to be truly, humbly grateful.

~End

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece is from Rumi’s poem: What Was Told, That, which, really, if you haven’t read it yet, give it a shot, okay?


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